Coffees to Fix
by casfics
Summary: Short prose piece depicting the lows of love — how it very much isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.


_**Super super super busy. I've had this prose on my phone for a good few months and thought I would share. Bit short and is intentionally ambiguous in terms of characters and dialogue (though there isn't much of the latter), that is sort of the point. Might do more like this for other characters when my time is less of the essence!**_

 _ **-x-**_

 _"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings." ―Anaïs Nin_

There are only so many 3am fights causing reddened eyes full of emotion that one can possibly take. Ethan finds that when they're fuelled by alcohol, they are ten times the worse.

Course, neither he or Alicia particularly consider the half-empty bottle of whisky lying on the rug when they're tearing lumps out of one another. To break someone else fixes a little bit of themselves, or it feels that way. Everything goes a little deeper when the world is sleeping; insults being no exception.

The neighbours try to come up and bang on the walls, just like they always used to, but they're rarely heard. Being ignored in the lift the next day seems pale in comparison to the weight of the words they itch to air. Perhaps it's lacking in consideration, but they can't help themselves.

It ends after a few words, usually when she's been too shrewish and it vaults him into silence. He then spits more venom of his own, just for good measure, for everything is on the table already.

Sometimes she goes blank in response to this, blue eyes glazing over. Other times she cries, big ugly sobs, the sort that represent the end of the fight.

The latter approach is chosen, subtly ascertaining the joint need they'd have for paracetamol come the morning, the real morning. If unlucky, even earlier. Her shoulders collapse and his do too, mirroring the state of despair before him. Someone reaches for the bottle and drinks the last few drops of the culpable liquid, annihilating all trace. The other snatches the bottle away, tossing it aside. It smashes. Both mumble curse words. The shards are ignored.

Suddenly, they are horizontal and heavy-headed and hitched physically. Limbs tangle atop the mattress, air stales. Cheeks press against chests and hands soothe backs. They can hear the birds outside, chirping the morning chorus. It is a relief, because life goes on outside the bubble of topsy turvy.

One gets up, at long last, rubs matted hair and talks to the door, asking if it's one coffee or two. It's two.

Plodding through into the kitchen, they avoid the shard of glass that nearly lodges itself into the sole of their foot. An ache spreads across their chest. Ironic. They wish the glass had just gone in after all.

Two mugs are placed on the countertop absentmindedly, about an inch apart. The arbitrary procedure is followed: coffee granules, a heaped teaspoon of sugar, three quarters of boiling water, a splash of milk.

Contents wise, they're the same, and equally as full. Steadily, they are carried through into the bedroom. Some splashes over the rim, scalding. A wince in pain, merely a hiss. It's ignored — worse pain has been felt. Bleary eyed, they plonk them on the table with a clatter almost disconcerting.

They roll back into bed. A sorry is muttered. They aren't quite sure what for. The noise. The row. The _hurt_.

Accusing yet regretful eyes meet, tentatively forgiving, but wide enough to remind them they won't forget. Some things, however little, remain remembered.

It is as if, however petty, everything accumulated makes things oh so painful. Of course they wish they had a rewind button. But, life isn't as sparing, it forces you continue with what you've got. What you've created. If that's a bad atmosphere, so it is.

Arguing happens too much. Every day brings a new row. However, they could squabble until the end of time, yet the things that truly matter would not change. The people that matter would not leave. It is exceptionally easy to get caught up in the moment, but never easy enough to end everything. Not again.

So, they kick their feet back, scrunch their toes under the duvet. The cast aside newspaper bursting with yesterday's stories crinkles atop the covers with movement. In unison they sip. Stale caffeinated liquid, yet wonderfully familiar too. It is silent for a second: the sort that is tangible. As if clockwork, their heads rotate to look at one another. They are out of the arena. For the first time, they truly see one another.

'I've had worse,' she shrugs, flirty, glancing at the coffee then back at him.

He leans in. 'What do you mean? It couldn't be better.'


End file.
